Page 24 of Academy of the Wicked: Year Three

"There's no loyalty,"my mentor had continued,"no matter who you are. Friend, foe, stranger, or of blood."

Then he'd turned to me, and I'd seen something in his ancient eyes that might have been pride. Or pity. Sometimes they looked the same.

"But you, Cassius, your power is the depths of darkness. You're a weaver of the shadows that are truly endless in existence. You're an immortal mastermind who will never run out of energy or drive because darkness doesn't die."

The third wave hits, and I understand with crystal clarity what he meant. My shadows don't break against Gwenivere's assault—theybend, flowing around and through, finding spaces between her attacks where they can exist without conflict. Because darkness doesn't fight darkness. It mingles. It merges. It finds equilibrium.

"It's no different from light and darkness,"his voice echoes across years."Those are elements that will never run out, making you invincible in your own element."

My knees finally touch ground, but it's not submission. It's adaptation. My shadows spread outward, creating a buffer zonewhere her power can rage without destroying everything it touches.

"That sadly is frightening when you're a royal, for no one can truly end you. And that's exactly why they stay away. Not out of fear. Out of envy."

I'd asked him then, young and desperate for connection,"How do other royals meet or become friends?"

His smile had been sad. Knowing.

"When you're destined, the time will come and force you together with those who will always stay by your side."

The memory crystallizes as I realize what's happening around me. My shadows—responding to instinct older than conscious thought—have wrapped around my companions. Not to trap but to preserve. Each one encased in protective darkness that filters Gwenivere's raw power into something survivable.

"But when you truly find the one that makes you question it all,"my mentor's final words ring with prophetic clarity,"to get a glimpse of how they must feel in their own world of mayhem and loneliness, you'll realize you've found someone who's not only your match, but destined to rise with you."

The flashback shatters as present reality demands attention.

I'm surrounded by darkness—not mine, not hers, but something between. A realm created where our powers intersect. My companions float in shadow cocoons, their forms visible as silhouettes outlined in purple energy. Hearts beat with that same violet light—alive but suspended, protected but imprisoned.

They're safe. For now.

But for how long? My shadows can't hold against hers indefinitely. Not when she's channeling power that makes the Infernal Realm itself kneel.

"Release them," I command the darkness, testing limits.

The shadows consider. I feel their contemplation like fingers across my consciousness—alien yet familiar. They're mine but also hers, loyalty divided between creators. Finally, they comply enough to reveal more detail. My friends float in suspended animation, awareness dimmed but souls intact.

It will have to be enough.

Movement catches my peripheral vision. I turn, expecting attack or new horror.

Instead, I see a child.

She stands perhaps twenty feet away, though distance means little in this void between realms. Six years old, maybe seven. Small in the way that makes you want to protect rather than fear.

But I know better.

Her pout transforms cherubic features into something achingly familiar. Those eyes—too large for her face—shift through impossible colors. Red bleeds to gold bleeds to black bleeds to pure white, each transition lasting exactly one heartbeat. The cycle repeats endlessly, hypnotic in its precision.

Her hair defies physics and reason. Silver strands flow past her shoulders, past her waist, past her knees, stopping just before touching the ground that isn't ground. The length should make her look fragile. Instead, it wreathes her like armor, moving with its own wind in this airless space.

She wears simple clothes—a t-shirt and shorts that seem absurdly mundane given our circumstances. But the normalcy is illusion. Every inch of exposed skin glows with those same markings I saw consume Gwenivere. They're smaller on this child form, more delicate, but no less powerful. Each symbol pulses in rhythm with her impossible eyes.

I know without doubt: this is Gwenivere.

Not possessed. Not transformed. But some essential aspect given independent form.

"Is that you?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral. Speaking to children requires different tactics than addressing adults. Even children who might be apocalyptic entities.

Her pout deepens, lower lip extending in exaggerated displeasure. The expression is so perfectly childish it would be charming if not for the power radiating from her small form.